Going Through the Notions(9)

Angus was a powerhouse. He’d coordinated everything, even done a lot of the cleanup himself, and saved our home, plus our rental income. He’d also helped Joe with numerous other projects over the years. He always refused to take any monetary compensation, saying the only gift he ever needed was our friendship.

“Does Angus have a good lawyer?” Joe asked as he drizzled vinaigrette dressing over his salad greens.

I watched a fat bumblebee suckle on a yellow hibiscus. “Betty said they’re using Warren Zeigler. He’s been their family lawyer forever.”

“He probably needs a good criminal attorney. I could make some calls if you like.” Joe’s dark eyes regarded me steadily.

I stared at him, my throat suddenly tight. Even though I had just visited Angus in prison, a surreal experience to say the least, somehow this brought it home to me that the situation was real. Desperately real. It wasn’t some temporary misunderstanding. Angus wasn’t getting out of prison tomorrow or the next day. Heck, it was even possible he could be tried and convicted of a crime he didn’t commit.

“I’ll talk to Betty. But Joe, I’m really worried about him, regardless. He seems so confused. It’s like he was falling apart in front of my eyes.”

“Well, he did take a good conk on his head getting into that police car.”

“Oh, God, you’re right, I’d forgotten about that. But Betty seems to think it’s been going on for a while.”

“Then I hope it’s nothing serious.”

I thought of my boisterous linebacker-sized friend, always full of funny stories, with an encyclopedic knowledge of collectibles. Was all that lively intelligence to be lost to a devastating disease that would turn his brain to nothing more than a mass of useless spongy tissue?

*



“Early on Monday morning, before I opened the store, I headed over to the police station in Sheepville. I told the desk sergeant on duty at reception that I’d like to see the detective in charge of the investigation.

“You would, would you?”

“Yes, please.”

“You in, Frank?” The sergeant turned to a heavyset man in short shirtsleeves sitting at a desk behind him who was eating thick slabs of French toast, smothered in maple syrup, out of a Styrofoam container.

“Sure.” The detective pointed his plastic fork at me. “I know who you are. That lady from the sewing store, right?”

“Yes. I’m Daisy Buchanan. And you are?”

“Detective Ramsbottom,” he said, without bothering to get up. He stuffed a piece of sausage into his mouth.

“Your pal Angus isn’t doing himself any favors, you know.” His speech was muffled. “He can’t remember much. His mind seems to have blanked out about whacking Jimmy, too.”

I blew out a breath, feeling my blood pressure rocket. “Maybe he’s confused because of the bang to his head on the cruiser door. Maybe someone could argue a case for police brutality.”

He actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at me, and then he smiled, as if trying to be kind. “I know he’s your friend, but I also know he done it.”

“He did it.”

“What?”

“Sorry, I don’t mean that Angus did it. I mean that you used improper grammar.” Hey, I couldn’t help it. I was a schoolteacher for most of my life. Old habits die hard.

He licked his fingers one by one, then wiped them on his pants and ambled over to me.

I thanked God for small mercies when he didn’t offer to shake my hand.

“Look, Detective, I only stopped in because I wanted to let you know that Angus was helping Jimmy repair the barn. His fingerprints were on every single beam in that place. I’m also positive he didn’t go back to Jimmy’s the next morning. You have Angus Backstead locked up in jail, and meanwhile the real killer is running around somewhere scot-free.”

The detective’s wide smile faded. “And I’ll let you know that your pal Angus is a drunk, has a vicious temper, and it’s not the first time he’s been in trouble with the law. The investigation is continuing, but I’m positive that we have our man. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do . . .”

I restrained myself from asking if that included scarfing down more breakfast treats, and made a dignified exit. Time was running short and I raced back to Millbury to open Sometimes a Great Notion. The sky darkened with burgeoning gray clouds. A thunderstorm was threatened on the weather forecast, but I hoped it wouldn’t keep the customers away.

Not only had Angus helped with getting the store off the ground by giving me auction merchandise at cost, but he’d worked with Joe to fix the nineteenth-century storefront to accommodate present-day customers. Two big glass display windows jutted out onto the porch—a new addition to the original house.